All Was (Mostly) Well
by Yelsaew Sniwt
Summary: This story is a compilation of moments from various characters' lives in a post-Voldemort world. Although the wizarding world is largely at peace now, the characters who survived the Second Wizarding War still struggle grief, raising families, and building new lives in a world very different from the one in which they grew up. Some things are inconsistent with post DH info released
1. Prologue

_All Was (Mostly) Well_

 **Prologue:**

All was well.

All was not, however, fantastic, nor was all easy, nor glamorous, nor exciting. By no means, was all perfect. Of course, there were moments, sometimes seemingly epochs, of prodigious joy and comfort that seemed to sweep the word with their greatness, but there were always holes. Holes that may seem lesser in happy times, but no amount of good fortune could fill them, not completely. There would always be memories. There would always be empty seats, even if they had long since been set out at the dinner table. There would always be pangs of sorrow, of guilt, when certain names were mentioned. All was well— well enough at least, but nothing was ever the same.


	2. A Revision

**A Revision**

Harry woke with a start. His heart was hammering, and he was drenched in sweat.

Ginny stirred beside him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, suddenly alert.

"Nothing. Just a dream." Harry said rather shakily.

"Let me know if you want to talk about it." said Ginny.

"I think I'm fine tonight, thanks." Harry replied.

Ginny gave Harry's hand a firm squeeze, then rolled back over.

It took Harry a few moments to calm down, although he knew now that his nightmares were really just nightmares. There was a time when he could see into Voldemort's mind, when Harry had terrible visions of the dark wizard's doings, but that time had long since passed. Harry's scar hadn't bothered him since Voldemort's death nineteen years earlier, and he, Harry, hadn't had an uncontrollable vision since. None of this stopped Harry, however, from dreaming of the past, from reliving, or, in some cases, reinventing the terrible things he'd seen during the Second Wizarding War.

Tonight it had been Fred. Tonight, Harry had been standing in Hogwarts nineteen years in the past, fighting with his friends. Tonight, the wall had exploded again, ripping Harry and the others in a frightening instant from the world they had known, casting them mercilessly into another, colder one. Tonight, Harry heard Percy's screams, Ron's sobs. Tonight, Harry stared into Fred's lifeless face again for an unbearable eternity, unable to look away from the terrible vacant eyes, from the mouth, the vestige of a laugh still clinging to it.

Harry had dreamt this before, but each time felt as horrific as the first. In his dreams Harry had watched Fred, Dumbledore, Snape, Cedric, his parents, and countless others die and suffer over and over. Oftentimes he lay awake with Ginny in the middle of the night if either of them had a bad dream, a phenomenon that, between the two, was not infrequent. Sometimes they would talk about the dream, other times they would talk about happy things or even mundane things to lull themselves back into an undisturbed sleep. But Harry didn't want to talk to Ginny tonight, not about Fred. Harry didn't usually mention Fred unless Ginny brought him up. He knew that it hurt her, deeply, to think about him.

In an attempt to keep unhappy thoughts at bay, Harry pushed his son, Albus, to the forefront of his mind. Unlike his older brother James, who bounded into Hogwarts with exuberance, Albus had seemed rather apprehensive to be sent to school. Albus would've been sorted tonight, and Harry knew he would probably receive an owl from one of his sons with the results soon. Harry thought back to his own sorting, remembering how nervous he had felt, and he hoped fiercely that Albus was happy with his own sorting. Harry pictured his son sitting on a stool in the Great Hall with the sorting hat slipping over his eyes, chanting under his breath _not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin…_


	3. Things are Different

**Things are Different**

"Ron…Ron!"

"Whaaa-?"

"I can't sleep."

"Blimey, Hermione, it's three in the morning!"

Ron turned groggily to face his wife, rubbing his eyes.

"It's just, she must've been sorted tonight, and I know she'll send an owl as soon as she knows...but maybe she won't if she's disappointed by the results! How we will know to comfort her then? And I keep thinking that we forgot to pack something—

"Hermione—

"...but I can't remember what it is! And maybe I should've given her a couple more of my old books to supplement her assigned readings—

"Hermione—

"...or maybe I should've given her fewer, because I know she'll make time to read them, and maybe she won't let herself have any fun. I do hope she doesn't have her heart set on making the Quidditch team in her first year—

"HERMIONE, PLEASE!"

Startled, Hermione stopped talking, having just become aware that Ron was trying to speak.

"Just relax, okay? I'm sure everything will be just fine." said Ron.

"You think she'll be okay?" Hermione asked.

"Of course she will! She's brilliant, just like you. She'll do great." Ron said, smiling at his wife.

"She will." Hermione replied with unconvincing assurance. "Hogwarts is a safe place to be."

"Yeah, we thought so when we went until we encountered trolls, a three-headed dog, the Whomping Willow, a Basilisk, giant spiders in the forbidden forest, the occasional war—

"Ron, stop it!" Hermione pleaded, suppressing a weak smile.

"Alright, alright!" said Ron, raising his hands to his shoulders in mock surrender.

"She will be alright." Hermione repeated with a forced conviction.

"Of course! She's a Granger-Weasley! Grangers and Weasleys have always had success at Hogwarts. We've always been sa—

Ron's voice seemed to dry up. The rest of his unfinished sentenced seemed to hang in the air, skeletal.

"Things are different now." Hermione said, breaking a long, cold silence.

"Yeah." said Ron. "Yeah they are."


	4. Hiding Spots

**Hiding Spots**

 _Fred! Fred! This isn't funny anymore, come out!_

It was well past sundown. Their mother was yelling, pacing the yard frantically, searching for her son. Nine-year-old George grinned. He had been found moments ago, but Fred must've discovered a great hiding spot, because none of his brothers, nor his mother, could find him. George wasn't searching with the rest of his family. He knew Fred like he knew himself, and he wanted Fred to succeed in the game for as long as possible. A victory for one of them was a victory for both of them.

But as the minutes dragged on, a knot seemed to form in George's stomach. Very rarely was he separated from Fred. Fred's absence gnawed at George. He felt naked, cold. Then a terrible thought crossed George's mind— what if something had happened to Fred? What if he was hurt? George tried to push the thought away. Nothing could happen to Fred. George would be there, George would know.

George heard a tapping noise from above, then wheeled around toward the house behind him. An immense wave of relief swept over him as he saw Fred grinning down at him from their bedroom window. George shot Fred an identical grin. Fred pushed a finger to his lips and dipped out of sight.

Their mother rushed back to George's side, exasperated and worried.

"Georgie, please. Tell me where he is."

"I said before! I don't know." George lied artfully.

Their mother did not believe him, but George kept a straight face. He was good at that.

Just then, Fred burst out the door and onto the lawn.

Their mother let out a cry of mingled relief and rage, running toward her son.

"I've been looking for you for _ages_!" she cried.

"Why? I've just been up in my room." Fred replied casually.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, you understand?!" their mother yelled. She was shaking.

"Do what? Sit peacefully in my room, enjoying the tranquility of an empty house? I'm sorry, but I don't see what's so wrong or unusual about that." said Fred, a cloying layer of feigned innocence in his voice.

George grinned. Tranquility was something they did not enjoy.

Fred was now back beside George, right where he should be.

"When did you sneak back?" George muttered beneath the continued yelling of their mother.

"About fifteen minutes in, when everyone was out looking." Fred replied in a low voice. "How'd you fare?"

"I was the last one found. Besides you of course." George gave Fred an admiring nudge.

Fred grinned at him. Everything was normal. Everything was perfect. George needn't have worried. It was foolish to worry. He and Fred were meant to be together. They would always be together…

"Fred George Weasley! You will come _immediately_ the next time I call you!"

At the sound of his wife's yell, George awoke. He shut his eyes for a desperate moment, but the dream had escaped him. He felt it slipping away from him like smoke.

The bedroom door opened violently, and Eliza burst into the room, gripping their son tightly by the collar. The freckly nine-year-old boy sported a grin that was uncannily similar to one that George had known very well in his youth, the grin of the man his son was named after.

"Can you believe him?" Eliza asked furiously.

"Well, I don't know the exact nature of his most recent offense, but, given what I've seen him do before, probably, yeah." George replied, grinning at his son.

Fred Jr.'s grin widened.

"C'mon, George, you can't encourage this behavior." Eliza pleaded.

"Of course not." George said suddenly, his face comically stony. "I would never _ever_ condone any sort of mischief or meddling whatsoever."

Fred laughed, and even Eliza's lips twitched.

"Okay, he'll fool around, I get that, but we at least have to know where he is." Eliza said with an air of compromise.

"Absolutely. We'll install a tracking device on him first thing and monitor his every movement." said George.

Eliza couldn't hold back her smile.

"Leave us a note, if you're going to play outside." Eliza said to her son. "Or even wake us up, if you need anything, I don't care what time it is—

"Well _I_ do." George said. "Unless the house is burning, I'd rather not be disturbed while I'm getting my beauty sleep. Actually, scratch that. If the house _is_ burning, I'm sure your mother could take care of it without needing my assistance."

They all were laughing now. George couldn't help but think about the small truth that his words held. He really did value his sleep, but not for the same reasons that most people did. Sometimes George dreamt about him. Sometimes George felt him.

George was better now. A lot better than he used to be, at least. He no longer either slept through the entire day or stayed awake for multiple days on end. He no longer struggled with addiction. He no longer was confronted with suicidal thoughts.

It had taken him ten years, but George had married a beautiful, understanding, caring woman who helped drag him out from a very dark place. He had since fathered two children, Fred Jr. and Roxanne, both of whom he loved deeply and completely. George knew that he was lucky to have the support, the loving family and friends, that he did. He was capable of happiness, even immense happiness, which he had thought years ago he would never feel again. Despite all this, George still felt that life had robbed him. George felt, wherever he went, an emptiness, an incessant pang that tugged at him, sometimes subtly, sometimes violently. George knew it would never go away, not completely. But now, most of the time, he was good at hiding it.


End file.
